


A Discourse On the Benefits of Friendship (and Other things Likely to Kill You During Wartime)

by Zazibine



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Adventure, And the consequences of, Angst, Discussions about morality, Distorted Mental States, Eventually Scavengers, Ex-prisoner Rung, Faith in others, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Having Faith, Healing takes time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Loss of Identity, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Poor Rung, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build, Tags Are Hard, Therapist Whirl, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zazibine/pseuds/Zazibine
Summary: In a world of shattered glass and broken dreams, some mechs have it harder than others- and it seems like Whirl has drawn the short end of the stick.What follows are the adventures of a therapist thoroughly out of his depth, and one of the most traumatized mechs he has ever known, his new patient, Rung. Together, the two of them navigate through the rough waters of friendship, made all the more difficult when one of them can't speak and the other doesn't know what to say. From painful separations and evil Autobots to dangerous journeys and odd travel companions, the two begin to heal as they learn the meaning of having faith in others.Which Whirl thinks is a bit too sentimental for his tastes, but who cares about what he thinks, anyway?





	1. Blur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Insecuriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insecuriosity/gifts).



> This work was heavily inspired by Insecuriosity's "Upside downcast" which was wonderful enough to inspire me to try my hand at adding my piece to the Shattered Glass Universe. While there are some similarities in my first chapter to their work, this is my own piece and will very quickly diverge into new territory. 
> 
> As for the story itself, it isn't exactly as dark as the tags make it seem, Rung's just had a very hard life up until this point. The idea for his character is that he was only a few steps short of being lobotomized by Autobot medics and turned into a weapon of mass destruction for their cause. Rung's "treatments" are part of why a lot of the chapters from his point of view will be a bit strange, but the point of view will shift from section to section so as to better convey a concrete story line and to keep that from getting annoying.  
>  
> 
> Also, I do NOT own Transformers or any related Transformers media.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung wakes up, is freed, and kills some people. That isn't too surprising.
> 
> Whirl wishes he could say the same.

 

* * *

 

 Awake. Dark. Warm. Hot even, metal plating is burning.  Not enough air, not enough air, tightening is his chestplates..... Pain.

_Red warnings begin to flash through Rung's vision, telling him about his low fuel levels, his lack of air, of how long it has been since his last recharge. He's in critical condition, but he doesn't know it._

_He can't read the warnings._ _Doesn't understand what they mean._

_Doesn't even know they have meaning._

Red. Pain pain pain, plating tight- burning. Fire? Move! Can't can't can't- still. No move. 

No orders.

_Rung struggles against his bindings for a moment- the chains around his everything pull taut, before he goes completely limp. There is no voice telling him to move, so he won't. He will be a good mech- it's less painful that way._

_He tries to ignore his mounting panic._

_He's good at that._

No orders. Wait. Still. Silent.

Cursory check- wait. Can't see. Hear. 

Nothingness. Pressure. Walls everywhere, so where...?

_The thought (as much as it could be considered one) doesn't go anywhere as a new series of red warnings flash through Rung's vision, beaming across his optic lids. Heat levels are rising as his fans desperately whirl, drawing what little air remains in the pod Rung is trapped in. It's barely large enough to fit him, the walls only a few scant inches away from his plating, surrounding him in all directions. He's locked in, alone, with no idea how he got there or where he is. He doesn't remember, but not remembering doesn't alarm him as much as it should. Memory has always been a bit touch and go for him since his "operation", and it's not like he remembers ever being different from the way he is now._

_The Autobots made sure of that._

More red light. Prickling across his plating, itchy, tight. Hot.

_Rung hates the color red. Still, he has little choice in the matter, he can't exactly do anything about it if he can't understand what's going on. Kind of like the situation he's in now- and he doesn't like that much, either._

Intake air. Exhale. Hot. Warmish. Cooler. Less tight.

Waits.

* * *

 

The pod is greenish-gray in color, about ten feet tall and oblong in shape. It rests on the floor in a purple-hued room, surrounded by a number of curious Decepticons. Among their number is Whirl, the newest recruit aboard the small asteroid base, Commander Barricade, who frowns from the back of the chamber, and the spy Brainstorm, who stands  next to the pod, preparing to address the crowd. 

"Alright, who here can tell me what this is?" he says, smiling nervously. "Anyone care to guess? Yes, no?" Oh, he is going to be in soooo much trouble for this...

Barricade rumbles threateningly before growling out, "A pod. A containment pod meant for transporting high-risk prisoners that have _no business being here_. And yet, here it is. And here you are, Brainstorm, back three months ahead of schedule- what in the Pit was so important about the contents of this pod that you decided it would be worth it to break cover just to bring it to us?"

"A mech."

"A mech. And what, pray tell, was so special about this mech that would be worth breaking your **three hundred year old cover** , which took at least **a solid decade** to create? I want a clear picture here, and so far, I don't like what I'm seeing!" Barricade jabs a finger in the spy's direction angrily, doorwings twitching with suppressed rage. It had been a long, troublesome day and he wasn't looking forward to writing the report he would undoubtedly would have to send to high command. 

 Brainstorm wrings his hands nervously, before sighing, looking pained. "Understood, sir, but I think this may be a case of extenuating circumstances. When I say 'mech' that may not be entirely accurate. Perhaps 'personal test dummy for the Autobot medics' might be better- or perhaps 'tortured shell that was, at one point, a mech'?" A number of the Decepticons in the room appear ill at the thought, although Barricade remains unmoved, if a bit less hostile than before.

"Alright then. So how does that warrant you breaking cover to rescue this mystery mech of yours? If they are so broken up, what made them worth saving?"

"An edge." Brainstorm replies quickly, "Knowing just what technologies the Autobots are experimenting with now will give us an edge later when they pull out their finished product in battle." The spy hesitates for a moment before continuing, "Plus... Well, it wouldn't have been right to leave him there. He was all chained up, half-starved, couldn't even speak, the poor guy. Had an optic inhibitor and a gag on and everything. Couldn't move an inch. I got one look at him when I snuck into the high-security section of the base and decided that if I was on a base where they could do that to a neutral or something, then I wouldn't want to stick around until my cover got blown."

"So you broke your cover yourself instead," Barricade drawls sarcastically, crossing his arms. "I suppose you weren't completely stupid about this, and tried to sneak out? Instead of blasting a wall down, grabbing the mech, a pod, and a ship, and making a run for it?" 

"Hehehe, yeah, about that..." Brainstorm's wings droop under the weight of his superior's glare. "I was stealthy about it, honest, but I ran into a bit of trouble outside the compound. A few guards caught sight of me entering the ship and started blasting at us? And they might have alerted everyone else on base? Good news, I came out alright. Bad news, we maaay have some new recruits. You might have heard of them?"

Barricade practically ices him on the spot with the coldness in his voice. "And who, pray tell, did you recruit Brainstorm? An Insecticon? A bunch of cannibalistic scavengers?"

".... The Decepticon Justice Division?"

"Frag, Brainstorm, really? You told those rogue mechlings with more illnesses than a medbay under quarantine that it would be okay for them to interfere with the war? Do you want them to get themselves killed?! They number five, with one blind, one mute, and the others just plain obsessed with glory! Are you glitched, or just that stupid?"

"Neither. And this isn't about that." The jet responds shortly, finding his nerve at last. "I'll admit that perhaps I wasn't as smart about this as I could have been, but I firmly believe that my decision was the right call. This was worth it, and if you disagree, you can see for yourself why I'm right."

With that, Brainstorm spins on his heel and with a flourish, undoes the locking mechanism and throws open the pod door. 

* * *

  Warm. Dark. Scrape of chains on plating, scratch scratch. Itch. Waiting.

Wait... Cool? Less pressure, space? Air! Space, cool, air! 

 _Rung topples forward as the door he was so_   _close_ _to pulls away, leaving him a clumsy pile of disoriented mech on the floor._

Falling! Falling falling fall- pain. Pain, warm, red red red. Dark, still dark. Cool? Pressure space cool? Wall but not? Red pain, tightening in his chestplates.

Intake air. Exhale. Red.

Wait. No orders.

* * *

 

The small orange mech lies on the ground, still and silent except for the slightest of tremors in his plating. An optic inhibiter wraps around his head like a blindfold, and there's a soiled cloth jammed into his mouth, leaving him blind and mute. He is bound head to toe in thick chains, each link rusty from lack of movement. They likely haven't been fully removed in months, if not years.

 The Decepticons gasp at the sight, shock mingling with horror and pity. Whirl shifts slightly, claws clicking, feeling on edge as Barricade steps forward to get a proper look at the orange mech. 

"So this is who you broke cover to retrieve, Brainstorm?"

The jet in question nods solemnly, confirming it with a quiet "Yes sir". 

"...Good work. He looks like he's got one pede in the scrap heap, poor little guy. Have you done a psych evaluation yet?" Brainstorm shakes his head. "Thought not. He's definitely need one though, that's for sure. Can anyone get him out of those chains?" Barricade turns back to the room at large, doorwings flung wide in a display of righteous fury. 

"As Decepticons, it is our duty to defend against the tyranny of the Autobots! They have tortured this mech and bound him like a turbo-rat in a cage, forcing him to live in the utmost squalor. We cannot let this slide!" Barricade turns, pointing a finger at the silent figure of the mech in question. "What this mech has suffered through violates our every belief and it has gone on long enough. Let's get those chains off and set him free!"

A cheer echoes through the crowd as two mechs step forward, a pair of seekers named Verdict and Tripwire. Each of them holds a small saw in theirs hands, which they quickly put to use. Sparks fly as the saws whir, cutting through the rusted metal links like a knife through butter. As for the orange mech, he remains silent and strangely still throughout the process, even as the seekers remove the gag, even as they ease him into standing upright.

Then, as they remove the blindfold, his optics flash a bright blue, once, twice.

And everything goes to the pit.

* * *

Noise. Loud loud loud. Voices, loud, many. Cool not-wall, hot plating. Wait...

Masters... Orders?

Noise close, closer. Pressure on plating, feeling. Warm? Not pain. Touch? Plating cools, less red. New.

_It says something, that Rung doesn't understand what touch is like without pain. It is amazing enough on its own that he even knows what "touch" is._

_It has been a very, very long time for him._

Touch, movement. LOUD! Pain? Loud loud loud LOUD!!!

Shift. Bright light. Loud, less loud, quiet. Weight gone. Cursory check...

**Vital signs: 23**

**Proximity: 5 withing range.**

**Signatures: Unknown**

**...**

**Reclassify: Unknown -- > Threat**

_Ancient protocols snap into place as the chains are removed, the optic inhibitor lifted away. The removal of his bindings is always the signal, for they are never removed for any other reason. It's a cue of sorts, by now. Time to fulfill his purpose._

_(Not his, never his. The one they gave him, perhaps, but nothing more.)_

**Targets sighted.**

Red. Red red red red, plating tight, hot, burning. Not enough air, too tight! Surrounded!

**Transformation Sequence Activated.**

_His form shifts, twists into a shape he was never intended to have but is as familiar to him as breathing. He is no longer Rung, not anymore- in his place stands a massive artillery gun, standing ready to do what guns do best._

Red. Too red, orders received. Pink. Needs pink. (Tight, too tight, burning burning. Surrounded. Fear).

_It fires._


	2. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People die, and everyone wants answers. Whirl offers one and then immediately regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of Whirl in this one, folks. And as for why he's painted pink, even though that is the color of energon? Yeah, that's less because he wants to be scary and more because he lost a bet with Brainstorm. In case anyone ever wanted to know.
> 
> Also, warnings for on-screen death of minor characters, I guess? I tried not to make it too graphic.

       The base Whirl inhabits is a small one, all things considered. It is a round, cylindrical tower clinging stubbornly to the surface of asteroid 37-NE5A, and a supply stop for Decepticons heading to the front lines. Although the role it plays is important, the visitors they receive are few and far between.

     About 129 mechs live on base, split between soldiers, maintenance workers, techies, and medics.

    Soon, there will be even fewer.

* * *

       As the small orange mech transforms into a massive artillery gun and pivots to point himself at a nearby seeker, Whirl's optic grows wide and his tanks lurch at the sight. Something is very, very wrong.

      The feeling is confirmed when the gun jerks back and the mech's torso explodes in a shower of pink energon.

* * *

 

Fire. Pivot. Target acquired. Fire. Pivot. Target acquired.

_Two more mechs die before him, coated in startbursts of their own energon._

Red red red, burning. Tight. Fire.

_The next shot is slightly off mark, hitting the mech in question's arm and the left side of his torso. He is still dead before he hits the ground._

_Small tremors run down the length of Rung's barrel, causing his aim to be just that much more off. Red warnings scream at him for over-exerting himself, for missing his targets, for being surrounded and alone and afraid._

_Rung is panicking and he cannot stop._

Hit, too far off, adjustments required. Fire. Pivot. (Red red red red red. Not enough pink!)

Target acquired. Fire. Pivot. More pink, not enough. Too hot, too tight. Burning.

More pink required. Cursory Check...

**Vital Signs: 17**

**Dead: 5**

**In Range: 3**

_As more mechs fall to the ground, the tremors ease ever so slightly. As surely as the chains being taken off is a cue to transform, so too is the color pink a cue of sorts._

_It's comforting, and even if Rung can't put that into lucid thought, he feels it all the same. Pink means dead. Pink means not a threat. Pink means can't hurt him anymore._

_Pink is as safe as his life gets._

Pivot. Fire. Target acquired. Pivot. Fire. Target acqi-

Pink. Cursory check...

**Target: Threat, Living.**

**Signature: Unknown.**

_Rung turns to point himself at Whirl, before suddenly freezing in his tracks._

_Whirl is painted pink._

_He doesn't know what to do with that information._

* * *

 Whirl is terrified, which isn't exactly new to him, but that isn't important at the moment. What matters is the  **giant artillery gun** shooting his friends point-blank, and there's  **nothing** he can do about it. He's a therapist, not a soldier for primus' sake! 

This is so, so far above his pay-grade.

Mechs begin to flee the room as energon flies around them, pink liquid clinging to the walls and pooling on the floor. It is disgusting and horrifying and  **oh primus people actually deal with this for a living.**

Forget scared, Whirl is petrified with fear. The world is swirling around him in a blur of screaming and utter chaos and he's too scared to run away like a sensible mech. He doesn't want to die...

As the barrel of the artillery gun swings his way, a trickle of dread flows down his back strut as he realizes he might not have a choice in the matter.

* * *

**Target: Threat, Living.**

**Signature: Unknown.**

_Over-rides scream at him to stand down, that the pink mech is already dead, that to fire would be pointless. His scans tell him that the mech is very much alive. His helm hurts from the contradictions._

**More Data Required: Begin Thorough Scan...**

* * *

Whirl opens his optic cautiously after a long pause, only to find that the orange mech still hadn't moved an inch.

He isn't dead. He is not dead, and oh thank you primus, he is so relieved. And a little creeped out. And still terrified. So yeah. That's a thing.

 A full minute ticks past and the gun-former has yet to move an inch, which is weird- still grateful he isn't dead and all, but kinda weird. One would think that he would have fired already or something...

More mechs run past him towards the exit, taking advantage of the lull to get out of range of fire until there's no one but him, Commander Barricade, and the dead mechs left. The gun still has yet to fire. Time drags on... 

Okay, yeah, this is getting boring. Is he like, a hostage or something? What gives? He never thought it was possible to be bored when you have a gun pointed at you, but here he is. Bored. Still alive, but bored.

Barricade stands up slowly in the background, expression grave as he surveys the scene. "Whirl, can you pick up on why he stopped? Or calm him down enough to get him to transform back? I'm going to comm for help and see if we can't get some of the base's guards up here to subdue him."

A jolt of anxiety goes through the pink helicopter, eradicating any feelings of boredom he might've had. Oooh no, that was a bad idea. A gonna-get-him-killed idea. But he has no choice. And besides, underneath the sheer terror, he is a little curious...

Gingerly, he brushes his field against the orange mech's.

* * *

**Scan Complete.**

**Found: 1 mech, male. Living, possible threat -- > Kill on sight.**

**Vitals: Stable**

**Size: Large, helicopter alt mode.**

**Weapons: Chest-based blasters, claws.**

**Other Information: Unnecessary.**

Claws? (Burning, hot, warm. Tingle in plating.)

_Rung's sensors trace paths over the pink mech, lingering on the claws, the single optic, the bent-backwards knees. He's never seen anything like it before._

**Error. Repeating scan...**

_Is this being even a mech?_

_Suddenly, the pink mech takes a small step forward, and Rung's world blooms._

Warm. Warm? No pain, no pain... Plating not tight, no tight, no pain, no burning.

_He's never felt like this before, never had contact from a person who didn't want to hurt him. He doesn't know the word for it, but if he did, he would describe the feeling as blissful._

Weight but not weight, pressure, no pain. Warm... Loose struts, no tight, no red... Oh.

**Scan Complete.**

**Vital Signs: 1**

**Target: Threat, Living.**

**Signature: Unknown...**

_Plating twists in on itself as Rung transforms back into his bipedal form, blue optics fixated on the pink mech in front of him._

**Signature: Unknown -- > Known.**

**Reclassify: Target -- > Neutral.**

Safe.

* * *

Whirl knows his field is powerful. After his empurata, he hadn't been able to smile or use any recognizable facial expressions (a must-have for a therapist, emotional expression leads to emotional connection after all). Thus, after some trial and error, he had settled on a work-around- using his field. Decades worth of using it to project his feelings had left it incredibly strong; strong enough that some weaker mech's emotions could be altered if he engulfed them in his field for long enough. It served him well in his chosen occupation, as, while it didn't work 100% of the time, it was useful in calming patients down and in keeping fights from becoming too explosive.

But never before had he seen a reaction quite like  **this.**

The orange mech shudders, visibly shudders, before transforming and standing upright, mouth agape and optics blown wide. He even wobbles a little as he takes a few steps backward.

Whirl lets a tinge of amusement fill his field at the sight, prompting another tremor to run through the mech's plating. If he didn't know better,  he would have almost certainly assumed that the orange mystery mech was drunk, of all things! And so small, too, almost innocent-looking...

Frag. He really shouldn't find this mech as cute as he does.

 A loud crash draws his attention back to Barricade- and to the dozen tank-formers barreling into the room, all making a bee-line for the now-passive orange mech. 

Oh. He forgot about that.

* * *

Several tense minutes later and the mystery mech is trussed up in his chains even tighter than before. While Barricade hadn't arranged for the optic inhibitor to be put back on, Whirl can tell that the mech's blank stare is bothering some of his fellow Decepticons. (Never mind that those wide blue optics are glowing bright with terror. That sort of thing should be illegal, frag it.)

"Alright," Commander Barricade says, shattering the silence, "this is a situation that needs to be dealt with calmly and maturely. Seven mechs died today, including members of conjux pairs, like Verdict." He nods in the direction of the appropriate corpse. "Because of this, something needs to be done. It is clear that our newly liberated prisoner is more than he appears and is incredibly dangerous. This brings me to my first point- what should we do with him?"

"Kill him!" cries a seeker in the corner angrily, sparking a wave of chanting and calling for retribution. Barricade just shakes his head, sighing.

"Normally, I would agree with you, but this is a case of extenuating circumstances. The mech in question is clearly a few chips short of a shanix, and likely can't control himself. That being said, in control or not, he is still an Autobot-created weapon of mass destruction. Indeed, an argument can be made that it would be better to put him out of his misery now than let him fall into enemy hands later. So let's put it to a vote. All those in favor of killing him say 'I' please."

"Wait!" As everyone turns to look at him, Whirl's spark withers as he realizes that yeah, that was him who said that, alright. Still, taking a shaky invent, he continues. "Wait. There has to be another way."

Barricade blinks, before nodding. "Alright Whirl, you have the floor."

Oooh boy. "Okay then. Right. The floor. Um..."

"Whirl, spit it out."

"Sorry sir," he sinks down a little, contrite. "It's just. This seems a little harsh, don't you think? I mean, it's like you said, he wasn't in control, it's not his fault. It isn't right to punish him for something so clearly outside of his control. It goes against everything we believe about the value of mercy and kindness." 

"So what do you suggest we do, then?" Barricade asks, gazing at him intently.

"Rehabilitation. It would be hard, but if we're careful, he won't be going anywhere. He's wreck, so even if he did escape he'd just as likely to fall flat on his face as compared to getting anywhere. Perhaps we can teach him how to a mech again? That way, we won't have to say that we gave up on a mech we could have helped." 

"Fine." Whirl double-takes as the surrounding tank-formers begin to shout angrily. There has to be a catch, there's no way Barricade would have agreed so quickly if there wasn't. 

"Fine, Whirl. We'll rehabilitate our spark-snuffing mystery mech. But you're the only therapist on base, and the only one who spoke up, so... You want to help him? Then he can be your responsibility."

The room goes eerily silent as Whirl's audials fill with static, his spark sinking like a lead brick. He didn't mean-

He didn't want-

Frag. He should have stayed in his hab suite today.

 


	3. Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl panics, Brainstorm talks. Questions arise.
> 
> Both have of them have some thinking to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, minor warning for a description of a panic attack here. Be safe if that sort of thing triggers you, just skip down to the line break.
> 
> Other than that, this chapter is pretty dialogue heavy and provides a lot of explanation for why Whirl did what he did. I've never liked the trope where people kill off all these random background characters and then it never comes up again. I wanted to show that no, these mechs aren't going to be forgotten quite so easily, and that there should be debate over what to do in situations like this.  
> Life is complicated, you know?

As a tank-former swings the orange mech onto her shoulder and marches towards the prison cells (his new patient doesn't react to the rough treatment-  and isn't that a strange thing to consider), Whirl takes one last look around the destroyed room and makes a controlled retreat.

He doesn't run to his hab suite. At all. Really.

After a few flights of stairs (which he ignores in favor of just transforming and flying down them), he arrives, unlocks his door, and then bolts it shut.

And then proceeds to have a well-deserved freak-out as the weight of his actions collapses down upon him.

"Oooh primus. Oh, I can't believe I just did that. What the scrap was I thinking, how the pit am I supposed to help him? I'm just a therapist, not a miracle worker! Stupid stupid stupid..." Whirl paces around the square-shaped room, nimbly avoiding the table in the center and the many stacks of datapads scattered about. "I didn't want this, I just wanted him to not die! Who even is he anyway? He was supposed to be someone else's problem, not mine! Oh primus," Whirl pauses midstep, frozen in place. "He just murdered 7 mechs. What if he gets me too?"

The pink mech's plating begins to tremble in earnest as his thoughts spiral, dragging him down, down, down.

What if this kills him? The last act of Whirl, the stupidest therapist in the galaxy, forever remembered for dying while trying to talk to a literal spark-snuffing gun-former. And not even a big, important one like Perceptor but a tiny one who looked positively adorable. He'd be laughed at by everyone for years to come! Oh frag, he just called the mystery mech cute in his head- what was **wrong** with him?! He just wanted to help, he wasn't supposed to die this way!!!

A sudden knocking on the door snaps the pink mech out of it, making him flinch at the loud pounding. Oh no, oh no no no.... 

"Hey Whirl, you in there? Open up, it's me!" 

Oh. It's just Brainstorm. And here he was, panicking over nothing. Haha, how silly of him. Haha. Ha.

"Uh, yeah. Hey Brainstorm, come right in." Whirl desperately swallows against the lump in his throat and tries to ease the shakiness in his voice. He'd rather not let Brainstorm in right at the moment, but that's a bit too rude for his tastes.

"Whirl. The door is locked."

Oh. 

* * *

After a round of apologies, the spy and the therapist sit at the table with two cubes of engex and a plate of rust sticks. (Whirl struggles not to laugh at the thought, as it sounded like the start of a bad joke.)

(In hindsight, perhaps he hasn't calmed down quite yet.)

"Thank primus you're okay Whirl, I was so worried! I ran off as soon as the orangey guy started firing but I couldn't find you after. What happened, how'd you escape?" They both ignore the underlying 'how are you not dead' bit of the question.

Whirl's fans hum as he slouches in his seat and fiddles with his cube. "Yeah, about that? I didn't exactly. You know. Escape?"

Brainstorm's optics widen in shock, wings jerking upright as he gives a start. "Wait, you were in there with that bot the whole time? Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh. He was shooting people left and right, pink spraying everywhere like some sort of horror movie..." Whirl trailers off, staring out into the distance, optic unseeing. "It was awful. How could anyone stand to do that sort of thing?" The jet nudges him a bit to draw his attention before giving him a careful once over.

"You don't seem injured," he notes with a frown in his voice. "So he must have stopped before he got to you. Do you know why he transformed back? Perhaps that's some sort of clue about how we can keep him from doing it again. Oh, actually, have you heard?" At that, Brainstorm looks up to stare him in the optic. "Apparently some bolts-for-brains thought that it'd be a good idea to ignore everything he did and just let mystery mech off the hook. 'Rehabilitation' instead, or whatever Barricade called it. It isn't right, though. Not doing anything."

Whirl folds his claws in his lap and carefully doesn't say anything as his friend becomes more animated. 

"It's just not okay that they aren't punishing him, or at least getting him off base! All those mechs that lost friends because he murdered them, think about how  **they** feel! Poor Tripwire lost his conjux, Verdict, to that mech! It doesn't sit right with me that he has to walk around base knowing that he'll never get justice for the one he loved... After today? Orangey should get what he deserves."

Brainstorm trails off, before noticing the tiny shudders running through Whirl's frame. 

"Hey, hey. Dude, you alright? Oh." Brainstorm leans in closer, clasping one of the pink mech's claws in his hands. "I must have set you off, huh. Sorry 'bout that. Tell me what's wrong?"

"... You won't like it," Whirl croaks out after a long moment.

"That's okay. Friends don't always have to like the same things, and whatever it is, we'll still be okay. Now, deep invents and tell me?"

Frag. There's no avoiding it, huh? Alright then, so be it. 

"You know that mech who got the orange mech to stop firing at people? That was me. And the one that asked for him to be pardoned? That was..." Whirl exvents, optic darting about the room nervously. "That. That was also me."

"... Give me the full story."

* * *

It comes out in fits and starts and Brainstorm tears up in places when the heavy emotions in Whirl's field overwhelm him, but they get through it.

"So you asked Barricade to give the mech a chance."

"Yes."

"Even though you had just seen him kill a bunch of people, some of them people you knew."

"... Yes."

Brainstorm groans, sliding back in his seat, cringing mournfully. "May I ask  **why the scrap** you thought that was a good idea? What did you think would happen, everyone would suddenly see things from your point of view and give Orangey the benefit of the doubt? It takes more effort than a spark-felt plea to convince some mechs, Whirl." 

Whirl curls in on himself, claws snapping nervously. "In hindsight perhaps it wasn't my best move, but it just seemed obvious at the time. I wasn't kidding when I said that it went against what I believed about the Decepticon cause- he wasn't in control of himself, not really. It was just coding." 

"So? Coding is an integral part of who we are. Perhaps whoever he was before might not have done such awful things, but the Autobots changed him enough that he isn't that mech anymore. By now, maybe that coding is synonymous with who he is as a person."

Whirl shakes his head fiercely at the thought, before saying, "Uh, no. Doesn't work like that, 'Stormy. If all we are is what our coding makes us out to be, then I'd be some sort of violent soldier-type and Optimus Prime would be a peacekeeper. There are other factors at work, and I think mystery mech just needs some time to recover and relearn how to be himself." 

Brainstorm sits up and crosses his arms, wingtips twitching as he thinks. Whirl can't help but let a little bit of worry seep into his field at the sight. He really hopes that Brainstorm won't escalate this situation into a full blown fight, he'd seen enough fighting for today.

Finally, after a good minute of internal debate, Brainstorm responds, steadfastly not looking at the helicopter mech. "Okay. Okay, so what's done is done. I can't say I agree with what you did, but that's in the past by now. I guess all I can say now is, just... Do you regret it?"

His meaning is obvious, despite the vagueness of his language. It's a heavy question, one loaded with possible pitfalls.

Does he regret speaking up and saving the life of the mystery mech, especially now that he knows the consequences. Does he regret having to take care of such a dangerous mech all on his own. Is he resentful that his friend doesn't agree with his decision.

Will all the trouble be worth it.

Whirl can't exactly say that he's surprised, however, to be asked such a thing. Brainstorm always was a thinker at spark, even if he wasn't smart by traditional standards (as the whole "letting the mech out without a psych eval first" thing proved).

 So he gives it some thought: did he regret his actions? For all that his upcoming job with the mystery mech would be dangerous, he had still saved a life. And every life had value, even those of people who weren't exactly considered his "friends" by any standards. The mech had taken lives, yes, and by saving him there was going to be a chance that he would take more in the future. But if that happened, wasn't that more on him than on mystery mech?

As a therapist, it was his duty to help Orangey (huh, that name was kind of catchy) return to mental stability. If he failed and the mech killed someone again, doesn't that mean that it's on him now? But wait, doesn't that mean that it's also the fault of the soldiers guarding the cell? The killing thing hinged on Orangey getting free first, and if that happened, he'd likely have nothing to do with it. So there were other wires in the circuit of blame if something occurred (which is kind of a relief, if he's being honest).

However, that didn't answer the question. No, he doesn't regret saving mystery mech's life. And he doesn't resent Brainstorm, as there are some pretty good reasons for the jet to feel uncertain. Is he worried about about having to deal with a confirmed killer all on his own? Frag yeah, if course he's still terrified. 

But Barricade had a point. He's the only mech who argued to save Orangey, so it makes sense that he's the one who's going to have to take care of him. His responsibility and all that. He might not be happy about having to do it alone, but then again, who would want to help him? Tripwire, the conjux of one of the murdered mechs? No, it wouldn't be right to force anyone else into interacting with the bot who might've killed a friend of theirs. He didn't regret having to work alone.

That just left whether or not this endeavor would be worth it. 

He thinks about how the orange mech had reeled at the touch of his field, about the brightness of his optics when he was scared. About the chains and the trembling and the thinness of his struts (starvation and touch deprivation, his mind whispers, and likely more things too). About the rusted and scarred plating where the chains had cut deep furrows, down to the protoform. About how much Orangey must be suffering.

If he could do anything to heal him, to alleviate that, then it would be worth it.

 

"No, Brainstorm. I don't regret it at all."


	4. Curious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl fears, asks, doubts, and hopes. 
> 
> Rung does one of those things, even if he doesn't know it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never done therapy, but I'm pretty sure Whirl is not the greatest of therapists. However, he is the only one on base, which explains why he hasn't been fired yet. Also, how would you guys like it if I occasionally added in pictures for this? They'd be rare, but I can draw them.
> 
> Just a thought!

Awake. Dark, noise. Plip plip. Drip. Quiet. Weight.

_Rung opens his optics, only to find himself in an unknown space, surrounded by walls and bars and bound in his chains._

_He's tired of waking up in strange places at this point, not that he can voice his displeasure._

Walls? Walls, tight, warm, hot. Pressure. No air, no air... Pain. No noise, no pink. Warm, tight. Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: None.**

Masters? Orders? Not-Threat Neutral?

Gone. All gone...

Hot, burning. Red red red red. No, no! Nononono!! Tight, burning, pain!

Wait! Red, tight, wait. No orders.

_Rung is alone. And he is afraid._

_He's tired of that, too._

* * *

 

'Invent. Exvent. C'mon mech, you can do this,' Whirl thinks to himself, trying to curb the various emotions rising in his chest. For the most part, they consist of excitement, worry, and fear.

Or rather, sheer terror. Hence the venting.

'Just do it, Whirl, standing here will only psych yourself out more,' the helicopter mech tells himself, shifting nervously in place. Ohhh, why did he talk himself into this?

With a trembling claw, Whirl presses the button by the prison block door, which slides open with a heavy clunk. Upon stepping inside, he is immediately struck by how ugly everything looks. The once-like green walls have faded with age, and have turned a sort of sickly acid color, only broken up by the occasional watery yellow wall light. Stains decorate the floor like disgusting stepping stones, and brackish coolant drips from a crack in the ceiling with a steady, monotonous. *plip plip plip*. The sound echoes through the long, narrow corridor, nearly impossible to ignore.

It looks like something out of a horror movie.

"This can't be up to code," Whirl mutters nervously, carefully stepping into the aging hallway. "Seriously, this is disgusting. Whoever let it get so bad down here should be fired." The pink mech continues forward, optic roving over the various prison cells on either side, pedes clanging loudly against the grungy tiles. "I really need to have a talk with management after I'm done... here. Oh primus, what even is this place."

The pink mech shudders at the sight of a particularly nasty patch of mold growing not five feet away from the entrance to one of the empty prison cells. In fact, he notes as he continues onward, pretty much all the cells are empty. The whole corridor, just filled with barren rooms where prisoners once lived and ate and slept.

Forget creepy, this place is downright disturbing. And not just because of the dirt.

After a solid three minutes of dodging puddles and walking past barren rooms, Whirl finds the correct cell. And the lone mech inside. (As much as wishes it were otherwise, that was the easy part).

Invent. Exvent. Step in front of the bars.

"Okay Orangey, time for your first official therapy session.

* * *

  
_Rung onlines with a start, only to notice a pair of familiar sensations: the red flash of his internal warnings, and strange but comforting feel of Not-Threat's field._

Red. Red red, pain? No pain! Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: One.**

**Proximity: 10 feet.**

**Signature: Known.**

**Neutral.**

Oh. No pain, no tight. Not-threat Neutral! 

Safe!

_He leans as close to the bars as his chains will allow, optics held wide in order to take in everything he can about the mech. Why he feels that such a thing is necessary is unclear to him, but the compulsion is strong and Rung has no reason to resist._

**Begin thorough scan...**

* * *

 

The first thing that strikes Whirl is how small his new patient is. Not that he hadn't noticed before, of course, but behind the thick bars, he looks positively tiny. The kind of small where he could easily pick the orange mech up and swing him around like a rag doll- not that he would, of course. He's a bit too professional for that.

(Although it did spring to mind for a moment).

The second thing that strikes him is how  **clean** the little guy is. A lot of the grime  caked on his plating from earlier had been washed away, leaving bright orange paint and a crystalline blue spark chamber on display. It's on the verge of scandalous, which raises several questions for Whirl. Just who  **was** this mech before the Autobots got a hold of him?

Was he rich? Poor? Some sort of servant for a higher class mech? The therapist doesn't know- and if he's honest, it's kind of sad. This whole mech's story, gone in an instant, with no one to remember it- not even the mech who lived it. All that's left is just some husk of a mech, hardly even a person at this point.

And it's his job to fix. Ooh boy. 

Well, no time like the present to begin, he supposes.

"Alright, first off my name is Whirl and I'm to be your therapist for the duration of your stay." Primus, does he sound like some travelogue agency. "Sorry about the accomadations,  **somebody** clearly hasn't been cleaning down here. I'll see what I can do about that, so no worries there I guess." Still no response. Oookay then. "Um. You do understand me, right? I mean, not talking I get, plenty of mechs go nonverbal after traumatic incidents." Great, now it sounds like he's reducing Orangey's trauma down to something not worth fussing over. That's **just** what he wanted to do- not. " I mean, horrific catastrophe." Now that sounds patronizing. Just getting better and better, huh Whirl? 

"Know what? Let's get on with it. If you understand what I'm saying, can you make some sort of movement? Like a nod or something? Because honestly the constant staring is getting a little creepy."

Still no response. 

And Whirl has the sickening suspicion that his job just got ten times harder.

* * *

 

Noise. Noise noise noise, Not-Threat Neutral noise? 

No. Safe, no pain no orders. But. Tightening in plating, warm, tingle in chest.

Orders? Noise go up. Order but not-order?

_Rung's confusion grows as Whirl tries to ask him some sort of question. This has never happened before- his thoughts, however few they were,  just hadn't mattered to the Autobots. Sure, his Masters had spoken around him, but to him? That had never occurred, not in his memory at least._

_It's (new special good)... Different._

* * *

 

At this point, Whirl is getting a little freaked out. Orangey is still staring at him like he wants to eat him, the chains keeping him in place are straining against his weight, and he had just had a thought.

He has a lot of those actually, (perhaps a few too many), but this one is decidedly unwelcome. 

You know how clean the little guy is? He really, really shouldn't be. It's not that he had had who knows-how-long-worth of dirt stuck to him, but that he had been positively dripping in spilt energon from the mechs he had killed. And yet, here he was, clean as chrome. All of that energon, down the drain.

The grizzly reminders of the lives he had taken, gone. Just like that. Almost as if those lives hadn't mattered, could be forgotten in the span of a wash cycle. As if they'd never existed. Of course, it's not like it would've good for the orange mech to have been sitting in a puddle of energon, for sanitation's sake if nothing else, but the thought lingers all the same. If Whirl didn't know better, he could've mistaken this for any other prisoner. And that kind of anonymity, crossed with how dangerous the orange guy could be? That was kinda scary. 

No morality, no sanity, just mindless violence kept in check by several sets of heavy-duty shackles. Only... That wasn't quite right, was it? Orangey had stopped, right when he was about to snuff his spark like a candle. Stopped and transformed and stared like he had walked into a wall. 

That sort of behavior was shocking to Whirl, as it made no sense. Why had mystery mech put himself in such a precarious position? In bipedal form, he was vulnerable to attack, and transforming had clearly been a bad move as it had nearly gotten him killed. And yet, Orangey had done it anyway? It must have gone against every sort of coding he had to pull that off... Wait.

Whirl shifted, field flooding with surprise at the revelation. Any mech coded to fight knew that transforming into their weaker bipedal form was an incredibly stupid move. Thus, Orangey must have gone against his coding to do it. And that implied that he had some level of control, of consciousness. Maybe not enough to fight back against the coding completely, but enough for him to work with.

And that, despite his fears and his doubts, gave Whirl hope for the little guy.

* * *

 

The session doesn't last much longer than that- Whirl keeps asking questions, the orange mech remains still and silent. 

But before the pink mech leaves, he makes sure to push a cube of energon through the bars for his patient.


	5. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl nearly loses it, while Rung is just lost.
> 
> A choice is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a heads up, Whirl has what amounts to another panic attack in this chapter. Be careful if that's the sort of thing that triggers you. 
> 
> And again, I don't get panic attacks (luckily) so I hope that this is an accurate portrayal.

Whirl comes back the very next day, plating itching with repressed nervousness. Yesterday may have given him hope that Orangey could one day be rehabilitated and returned to his previous condition, but the pink mech knows quite well that he is still dangerous. One positive experience did not a good mech make, after all. Which was he was coming back so soon- to see if any concrete progress to be made. (Whirl steadfastly ignores the little voice in his head saying that maybe he's a little curious, too. He'd rather not sound crazy, thanks.)

Still, he comes back all the same. With a clip-board in claw and a spare cube in his subspace, the pink mech feels much more professional- and if all goes well, perhaps he will feel a little less fearful too. 

Ehehehe... Yeah, riiight. A mech can dream though, can't he?

* * *

 

_Rung sits and stews in his fragmented thoughts, just as he had done since the cycle before. The cube of purple-pink energon sits a few feet away from him, out of reach and nearly obscured by the blaring red warnings flashing through his vision. He stares at it._

_The cube doesn't do anything._

_He stares harder._

Pain. Pain, red red red red red. Pain. Hot, burning, pink pink but too red. 

**Tank Levels: 16%**

**Critically low energon levels, refueling required.**

Red.

_He really hates that color._

Pain. Red, pain, red burning, tight plating. 

Red. Red red, not red... Hmmm. Not-red? Pink.

Not-Threat Neutral pink. Safe. Not pain. Not red. 

Stare. Stare. Red. Stare.

_Rung begins to drift, sensations falling away one by one. First the harsh bite of the chains disappears as he stops tugging against them, trying to reach the cube. Then the heat in his plating fades, walled off behind a constant barrage of red until all he can feel is numb. Finally, his tenuous grip on reality slips away, just enough for pain to become a distant thing that only happened to other mechs._

_Space and time are hidden behind the fog clouding his head, and Rung loses all notion of where he is, even **why** he is._

_All that remains are the red of the warnings, the pink of the cube, and the steady dripping of the coolant falling from the ceiling._

Plip. Plip. Plip. Plip.

_He waits._

* * *

 

"Heya, Orangey. I'm back, did you miss me?" Whirl chuckles nervously, all too aware of the (far too few, in his opinion) feet between him and the bars.

The orange mech just stares into space, mouth agape and a thin trail of coolant leaking out and running down his chin. No response.

"Okay, I kinda should have expected that, I guess. Can I just say you're fine? I mean, you obviously are not fine and all because of your mental state, but I don't think you are physically worse off than before? Wow that sounded nicer in my head, good job Whirl!" The pink mech in question bangs his helm against his clip board in frustration, then immediately winces at the pain in his optic. Which is basically his face at this point. Ouch, that was a mistake. "Okay yeah, that was stupid. I am being remarkably stupid right now, so I'm just gonna shut up now. Okay? " Still no response. "Okay then."

Whirl shuts up, instead checking a few boxes on his clip board absentmindedly. 'Is he still here? Yes, obviously. Is he alive? I think so?' He looks up and gives the mystery mech a quick glance before nodding and checking the appropriate box. 'Not injured, yes, responsive, no, lucid, definitely no. In pain? Probably but I can't do to much for that with the chains still on him. Fed? I mean, I gave him a cube yesterday, so I guess?' whirl looks up once more, taking note of the mystery mech's damaged plating and absent-minded stare. A stare which is focused firmly on the cube sitting about a foot and a half in front of him.

A cube that is still very much full. Frag.

"Um. Mech? The cube is for you to drink from. It's full of energon? You know that stuff you drink that, um, keeps you from dying? You've got to know what that is, seriously, this is something you can't not know. I mean, even if the Autobots messed you up big time they still had to make sure you knew how to eat. Right?" The therapist vents a sigh, scratching the back of his helm with a claw. It didn't make any sense. Why leave a mech unable to eat on his own? It just seemed like a hassle to have to feed him by servo every few hours... Oh.

A shudder runs down Whirl's backstrut as the horrible realization washes over him. That was exactly it- the Autobots must have fed him by servo, tipping the cube into Orangey's mouth instead of letting him drink on his own. That way, they made him dependent on them for food and encouraged him to see them as a positive influence in his life. Manipulation at its finest.

It makes Whirl feel sick.

How could one mech do that to another? The whole war is a senseless bloodbath, a testament to both sides' ruthlessness and desperate need to win. Sibling turned against sibling, carrier turned against creation, the whole thing is a violent mess. And this poor orange mech has had the unfortunate honor of being caught dead in the middle of it. Whirls feels a lot more sympathetic toward him, suddenly.

Still, now what? Sympathy aside, this is serious. There are two options here: either teach the mech to eat, a difficult process since he clearly doesn't understand him... Or he feeds Orangey himself.

Oh primus. Whirl's fans spin a little faster at the thought of getting that close to the mystery mech. Even if Orangey had spared him once, who's to say that he would do it again?  Behind these bars sits a bot dealt one of the worst fates he has ever witnessed, forced to bear burdens no mech should ever have to bear. Orangey had been abused, starved, humiliated, and broken. If there was a mech out there more damaged, Whirl hasn't met them. 

And all that horror and fear and brokenness makes Orangey incredibly dangerous.

(His tank churns as the idea consumes his  processor, mixing with his buried terror. Bubbles of panic start rippling through him.)

Wrapped in chains and desperately hungry, Orangey is like an injured turborat- liable to lash out at any time. Only, his version of lashing out is to kill people. To get into that cell would be practically suicide, even with the chains holding the mech in place! Transforming and shooting him aren't the only ways to kill him, after alll. Perhaps he'd scratch out Whirl's optic, bite at his throat cables, throw him against the walls and rip and tear and destroy and-

(The therapist's fans shriek in their desperate attempt to pull in enough air as his optic light dialates down to a pinprick. Tremors wrack through his frame, sending him stumbling into the wall for support.)

(Whirl is alone with a mech who could kill him within the span of a second. His only reassurance that such a thing won't happen are a set of chains and hope. And chains break, sometimes.)

(Is it any wonder that he is afraid?)

* * *

 

Red. Red. Not red? Pink? 

_Rung's consciousness returns to him briefly as a loud clang rings out._

_A mech has run into a wall._

_(When did he get here? Where did he come from?)_

Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: 1**

**Signature: Known.**

Pink. Non-Threat Neutral? No.

No, no. Not-real.

_The flash of lucidity fades away as the fog comes back, stuffing his head with cotton and making his surroundings feel heavy and dull and gray._

_His fans hitch, just for a second, as the world disappears._

Not Neutral. Not pink. Never pink.

Never real. (Gone, gone, gone.)

Red.

* * *

 

Things filter back to him in bits and pieces. His name is Whirl, and he is a therapist on asteroid 37-NE5A. He is currently trying to help an orange mech named... He doesn't know yet. 

He is sitting against a wall in the prison block. That's easy enough to fix, at least.

Whirl stands up and takes a deep invent, letting it out slowly. Okay. He's okay.

(Mostly.)

Now what?

Whirl takes stock of the situation. His patient is starving. His job is to take care him. Thus, he needs to feed him.

However, the mech can kill people in seconds, blast them apart in a spray of- (stop that, the therapist tells himself. Now is not the time.)

Invent. Exvent. Continue.

His patient is dangerous. Getting too close to Orangey could kill him. To feed him requires getting close to him- and therein lays the crux of the problem.

Is saving this mech really worth risking his life? Whirl buries his helm in his claws, groaning softly. Why couldn't life ask him easier questions for once?

He doesn't want to die, obviously. The very idea terrifies him. But at the same time, it is literally his job to do this kind of thing-  to approach unstable mechs and do what it takes to make them stable again. 

However, is it really fair for his superiors to ask him to risk his life? To gamble against the world, daring it to kill him while he tries to work for the greater good? When it is his life to do with as he pleased? If a mech could be approached in a manner that doesn't mean his immediate death, then yeah, he has to help. But if a situation is life-threatening, he should also be allowed to make his own decisions.

So that just leaves the morality side of the issue. Can he really live with himself knowing that he could've done something, but didn't? Yes, he isn't required to risk his life and no one would think ill of him if he chose to take the easy way out, but... Wasn't that just it? It would be the easy way out?

To let Orangey die in his cell would be easy, to write him off as a lost cause would be easy. But life isn't easy,  **faith** isn't easy. 

Whirl turns his gaze up to the ceiling, mind a million miles away. Fighting a war instead of trying to understand both sides was easy. Cruelty and violence and not caring were easy, too. But that didn't mean they were right. In a way, he had been making hard choices his whole life- refusing to follow the Senate's kill order had gotten him empurata-ed. Choosing to care for others had landed him with the Decepticons. 

To choose the easy way out would go against who he was as a person, to go against one of his core principles. His morality. And that wasn't an option, not for him. So yeah, if it really comes down to it, he is willing to die for what he thinks is right. 

Whirl just really, really wishes that it doesn't come to that. 

 


	6. Finding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost things are found.
> 
> It's not much, but it's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, sorry about the wait. This likely isn't as good as it could be, but I didn't want to make you all wait any longer. I've never been great with motivation but I promise I'll do my best to get the next chapter out sooner.
> 
> And yay! Character growth!

Whirl is scared. That's nothing new, of course, he's been scared throughout a lot of his life.

Still, it bears repeating- Whirl is scared. 

But he's determined to do what's right.

That will have to been enough.

* * *

 

The pink mech tamps down another wave of nausea and terror as he stands, cube in claw, right in front of the bars.

Invent. Exvent. Begin. 

"H-hey, Orangey. See you haven't eaten your cube, yeah? Um, that's a bit of a problem because I want? No, need. Need is better. I need you alive and, um, not eating doesn't help with that." Whirl's plating rattles slightly as he struggles to keep his claws still. 

"So... Oh primus help me. Mind if I come and help you out? And by help I mean feed. Yes. I need to feed you. Please don't kill me?"

The orange mech doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge that a question has been asked. He's just- silent. And a creepy sort of still. Oookay then.

Invent. Exvent. "C'mon Whirl," the therapist whispers to himself. "You'll be okay. Have faith."

With one trembling claw, he punches in the code to open the cell door.

* * *

 

_Rung floats in a haze of red, warnings blaring across his optics until he's gone; the world is gone._

_Everything, gone, lost in a flaming, burning cloud of red._

Numb. Numb, wait, not real.

(Pain! Pain and red and gone, gone Gone GONE! Plating tight, hot, pain pain. Burning! All GONE!!!)

_Nothing feels real. And he's so, so scared._

_That's nothing new, either._

Noise. (Not real.) Noise, light, pink? 

_The bars swing open and Rung musters what is left of his energy to blink open his optics, to see what is going on around him. However little that matters to him at this point, habits are hard to break._

Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: 1**

**Signature: Known.**

Pink. Pink, safe? No. Not real. Not safe.

(Gone gone gone.)

Numb.

_The pink mech moves slowly, even as Rung remains still. He watches impassively as the mech steps over the threshold of the cell, too exhausted and numb to feel much more than a muted sense of unease. Even then, what little panic remains is quickly wiped away as what the mech is carrying catches his attention._

Cube! Pink pink pink! 

_His tank twists in his chest, sending pangs of hunger rippling through him. Some of the blankness fades and the world begins to return to him._

Oh. Walls. Walls, weight pressure. Wait, no move. Noise, noise. Drip. Pink. Cube! Cube, pink, tight. Tight.

Wait. Red. Red red red red-

_Sensations begin to shoot across his plating, leaving blazing trails of pain and fear and something he can't quite name in their wake._

_Numbness is awful, but what it masks can be even worse._

PAIN!!!! Pain pain, red red red. Tight, too tight, burning breaking! Gone, not gone, never gone! Here! Pain here, red here, red Red RED!!! 

_All the pain that had previously been suppressed washes over him with all the force of a thundering tsunami, drowning him in a wave of sheer agony. It's all-encompassing, overwhelming._

_But he hides it. He can't transform, can't react as his programming dictates. Rung's very coding screams at him to do something, anything- but the chains are locked tight, telling him '_ Don't move, don't react. Wait.'

_And so he does, for all the good it does him._

_Unknowing of Rung's pain, the pink mech takes a_ _nother step and comes closer, and then closer still. Metal clatters and shakes as the mech edges forward, but the cube remains steady in his grasp. It's telling, this raw determination to press forward, but the mech's field is even more so._

 _For Rung, it's a bit like a shot to the face, and it's enough to snap him out of his spiralling terror. A bucket of liquid nitrogen, only with feelings instead- s_ _trong ones._

 Pain pain red red pain- Oh. 

Oh. 

Pain but not, red but not. Tight tight but not, not... Not not not? Not... Me?

...Me? (Unknown, plating tight, shivers. Right, unknown but right.)

_This revelation is quickly shunted off to the side, however, as a new one takes its place._

Pink. Cube, pink. Up? Cube up? 

Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: 1**

**Signature: Known.**

Oh. Pink. Not cube pink, Non-threat Neutral. 

Not pain, not red. Pink. And cube. But pink!

Light. Light, no weight, shiver tremble plating tight. Cold warm hot, flash red flash pink.

Flash. Cube.

_The cube in question is pressed to a seeking mouth, which open hungrily, desperate for the energon inside. It's messy, as the pink mech struggles to keep still, keep the cube in place- but the good kind._

_Like finger-painting as a child or dancing for the fun of it, even if you don't know how._

_Like your first meal after a long, long day._

_The cube itself isn't special- med-grade of average quality, kind of warm. It's what it symbolizes, what it feels like that make it something wonderful._

Pink. Warm, thick. Pressure, movement- no! Oh, movement pressure. Pink warm. (Yum...)

Soft slow, no tight, no red. Gone, gone away warm. Pressure movement, pink, no pain.

No pain. (Safe.)

_What few thoughts Rung has are slow and syrup-like- almost sweet, in a way. No constant bombardment of red warnings, no mounting panic as his coding screams at him to do something or other. Just him, the cube, the growing warmth and fullness in his tank- and Not-Threat Neutral._

_Feeding had never felt like this before- nothing had. Any moment spent in the presence of his masters had left him tense and terrified._

_Never warm and light-headed, and certainly never **safe.**_

_It's unique, unfamiliar but soothing. And for Rung, that is what makes it special._

_However, with the energon comes the return of consciousness- and a growing awareness of the thick field surrounding him._

_They are familiar, these feelings projected upon him, but foreign at the same time. The feeling of trembling plating and too-hot-can't-breathe. The feel of fear, constant and all-encompassing._

_They feel like **his,** like how Rung feels so often- but they are not his. They belong to Non-Threat Neutral._

Prickle in plating, itch. Warmth, safe but not? Safe but not safe? Prickle itch tightening.

_But that doesn't feel **right** somehow, not quite. Pink is safety, **Non-Threat Neutral** is safety- not fear or pain or red-heat-tight._

Not... Right. 

_It stirs something in Rung, something that his masters had tried so hard to quash- something that says "unfair" and "this is not okay" and more importantly, "let's fix it"._

_He doesn't know why he feels this way, why he suddenly has the urge to transform and shoot something. Why he goes limp against the chains, an act of submission when his masters are not here to submit to. Why he shrinks down, tries to be as unthreatening as possible._

_But for Rung? For all that he lacks understanding, it feels **right.**_

_And it's a step in the right direction._

* * *

 

Whirl edges forward, invents shallow and short as he steps into the cell. He eyes the orange mech over carefully, paranoid and searching for any signs of movement.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

It does little to ease the therapist's nerves.

As he draws closer, Whirl's optic is drawn, almost magnet-like, to the scene before him. The orange mech's plating is thin, and his paint is almost flaking off in places, especially under the chains, which are thick with rust. They hang like black iron vines from the mystery mech's neck, ankles, and wrists, heavy enough to make even raising his arms a difficult task. 

And he doesn't try. Doesn't move or blink, doesn't even seem to breathe. His gaze is fixed on the cube in Whirl's claws like staring at it could somehow make him less hungry. Too weak, too broken and weighed down and empty to even try to reach for it, to attack Whirl to get at it.

Placid. Resigned.

'Something so horrifying should not be comforting,' Whirl thinks.

And even if he does not voice it, even if fear is one of the least foolish things out there, Whirl can't help but be ashamed.

Shoving his terror to the back of his processor, Whirl extends his field, engulfing the orange mech in a wave of reassurance. 

"H-hi there. Sorry I'm such a piece of scrap, should have known you would be... Well, I guess I couldn't have known. Still though, I'm sorry. You must be starving, huh? Um, well, if you don't mind? I would like? To help? This is gonna be awkward." Fumbling slightly with the cube, the therapist reaches out with a claw to tilt the orange mech's helm back before placing the cube of energon to his lips. Almost immediately he pushes against it, trying to get the energon into his mouth as fast as possible. It's messy. It's delicate dance of push and pull, but Whirl doesn't find any pleasure in it.

His old masters might have  considered it an act of submission, might have gotten drunk on the feeling of power it gave them, but to Whirl? It's just helping out a person who was starving, one who never should have been starving in the first place.

There was no way he could have known, of course, that Orangey didn't know how to eat.

But guilt is often irrational.

As Whirl promises to himself that he will do better next time, **be** better next time, he notices a series of glyphs on the back of his patient's neck.

They're old, scratched into the paint and nearly worn away, nearly invisible if one wasn't paying close attention.

But they are there.

And they spell a word- or even more likely, a name.

 

Rung.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so relieved that I no longer have to address Rung by a series of ridiculous nicknames when writing Whirl's point of view. That almost physically hurt at points. -_-


	7. Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coding is complicated, and some decisions are reached.
> 
> Hopefully for the better.

The dichotomy is almost alarming. The orange mech had seemed so fragile under Whirl's claws, like he could fall apart at any minute, slip forward and shatter into a million pieces.

And yet he had killed, without thought or effort.

He was so desperate for some energon, the orange mech-  **Rung** -had acted like he was  ready to drown himself in the cube when it was offered to him. That sort of desperation shouldn't belong to a mech with such big blue optics and an expression blanker than sheet metal. Just be emotional or not, frag it, don't lie to him about his intentions!

Whirl's fans huff as close to a sigh as he can manage as he exits the cell and sits, leaning against the far wall. Facing the bars, he crosses his arms, gazing back at his patient (Rung, his processor whispers, his name is Rung) with wary curiosity.

That was the point, wasn't it? The Autobots had wanted a weapon who could lie, but never to them. One whose appearance left his loyalties in constant question, but would never betray them.

Delicate little prisoner in need of aid, or cold-sparked, emotionless machine? A cruel trick for anyone kind enough to fall for it- or, if it had worked like the Autobots had intended, a lethal one. 

And yet Whirl still feels guilty. 

The Deception ideals are clear on the matter- give people the benefit of the doubt, even if the situation calls for caution. Speak kindly and carry a big gun and all that.

And yet he hadn't even thought about how Rung would react to the cube, had been too scared to even enter the cell until today. Rung wouldn't have been starving if Whirl had been braver, and yes thinking that is stupid and irrational but scrap it, he doesn't care! 

Another sigh and Whirl props his helm up on one claw, legs outstretched before him.

If Whirl is honest with himself, it's alarming  just how far his emotions had been swinging the past couple of days. From sheer, spark-splitting terror to seething guilt and pity, and then back again. Another fine example of just how well the Autobots’ plan had worked out when shaping Rung into their perfect weapon. Oh joy, look at all that emotional turmoil!

Only… it hadn't quite worked, had it? Whirl isn't dead. A bit freaked out, yes, but not a pink stain on the floor like the Autobots seemed to have had in mind. So what had happened? Obviously Rung had to have at least some sort of sentience left in him if he was able to **choose** not to kill him- but how much free will would that be? And if given a chance, would Rung have enough free will to choose to forget his old programming and masters. Stockholm syndrome in a powerful thing, after all.

If not, (and as much as he hates to think of it, he knows it is a possibility), then would it even be worth it to keep trying to rehabilitate him? Killing someone out of spite or fear is a horrible, horrible thing- but to kill a prisoner as an act of mercy? Well, it's not great, but perhaps it would be better than living in a prison cell forever.

Of course he would give the orange mech a chance first, but again, what if there just wasn't enough free will to change his mind? Would it be right to give up on **a person** , even one that most on Base would consider a waste of time and resources?

There should be some sort of right or wrong answer, some clear, well-defined line the therapist can draw here.

But there isn't. Life doesn't work that way.

Whirl tilts his helm back with a soft clunk, watching the droplets of cleaner gather and fall from the crack in the ceiling.

Living in black and white isn't an option, and trying to live his life like that would only set him up for misery. It's a trap that's all too easy to fall for, and one he's had to caution patients about in the past. Life is just a series of shades of gray, and it all comes down to what you can live with and what you can't.

And that means it is time to make a decision. No more holding back, would he do his best to help Rung or not? The therapist can't keep waffling over his opinions on Rung; pick a feeling- an action or plan or something- and then stick with it. Revise it if necessary, but choose his course now so he can be more effective later.

And, Whirl chuffs a slight laugh, finally have something a bit more official-sounding to tell his superiors. 

* * *

 

_Rung watches. For the first time he can recall, he feels... Calm, perhaps. Not slammed by pain or terror or those awful red warnings. Just calm._

_Alone in his helm at last, and isn't that a novel experience._

_In a way, it's more than a little odd. Red pain fear had been normal for him, and suddenly things have changed, have gone far beyond what he was programmed to deal with. It's new and different, and it should be scary._

Twitch. Twitch pinch, itch in... Places. Wires? Itch in helm, no pain no red, but pinch.

_Rung twitches in place, just a bit._

_But it's not scary. For all that there is conflicting signals of_ _wrongness and rightness in his helm, for all that this is so very strange, he's calm._

_Non-Threat Neutral's field washes over him in dull waves, giving him clarity, letting him **think.** Or at the very least, giving him a welcome reprieve from the constant, all-encompassing internal screeching from before._

_Targeting protocols ratchet up before cycling down almost as quickly, all while the twitching gets steadily worse._

Calm. Safe but not safe but- safe? New. Non-Threat Neutral safe, right, but wrong? 

Wrong wrong wrong, no red no pain, not hurt, safe! But. Wrong? Right?

Warm. Hot, calm. Hot hot hot calm, safe but hot! Right but not!

_Ancient lines of green code stream across Rung's optics, trying to find a proper response to the situation. Circuits heat up as vague thoughts rush through his processor at great speed, each one being refuted before it becomes fully formed._

_There is no threat to attack, and the only mech in the room is one he adamantly does not want to hurt. (A soft "like me, he's like me" drifts through his mind before being deleted like the other thoughts.) Only, nothing in his code says that he should have anything to do with Non-Threat Neutral- the exact opposite in fact. Coding shrieks at him that his loyalty is to his masters, that any thing else is a-_

**Distraction found, termination required.**

**Targets: 1**

**Cycling weapons...**

.....No.

**Cycling weapons...**

No. No no no.

Safe. Not-Threat Neutral safe. Calm, not pain, not red.

Safe. No threat. No weapons.

* * *

 

**Processing.... 13%**

**38%**

**56%**

**85%**

**100%**

**Processing complete**

* * *

 

_But his masters are not here._

_A new situation to bring the code to the front of his mind, a lack of distractions so he can focus on its inconsistencies._

_And a mech who treats him better than his masters ever did. It's (amazing good yes) different. Different enough to spark a change._

 

_There are other aspects to his coding, ones that less to do with obedience and more to do with keeping Rung functioning. Ones that fix strings of code that have degraded over time. Ones that trim away malfunctioning or obsolete code._

_And in light of recent events, the decision is simple, almost automatic._

_His masters were threats. They inspired fear, pain, things that made him want to transform and hurt them back. But his coding said not to._

_The coding is wrong._

 

Snip.

* * *

 

**Signature: Masters -- > Hostiles.**

**Reclassify: Hostiles -- > Threats.**

 

**Reclassify: Not-Threat Neutral -- > Master.**

No. Wrong.

**Reclassify: Not-Threat Neutral -- > Priority.**

* * *

 

The decision is simple, almost automatic, a testament to just how much Whirl has been thinking about the subject.

Can he live with himself if he doesn't help Rung to the fullest of his ability, to go out of his way to stay safe?

No. No, he can not.

Tomorrow, the therapist resolves. Tomorrow he will enter the cell and speak with Rung. Tomorrow he will actually try and do his best to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another installment of "two mechs sitting in a room while thinking." Sorry for the lateness of this, folks. School is fun and all, but the homework is a pain. And yay, more character development!
> 
> I hope this doesn't come off as desperate, but comments are always welcome!
> 
> Have a nice day.


	8. Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School is boring for all involved, but something important is learned regardless.

Whirl lives on a base with mechs who have had their adults frames for centuries, mechs whose maturity knows no bounds.

"Let me get this straight," Brainstorm chuckles, "you want a datapad... For sparklings. One that nurse-bots use to teach sparklings their glyphs. Have you suddenly forgotten how to read, or did a fun night with a friend lead to an unplanned surprise?" 

Oh yes, sooo mature.

"Haha, see how hard I'm laughing," Whirl drawls, tapping his pede testily. "Really, though, do you have one of not? You've got more stuff in your subspace than turborat prepping for winter; if anyone has one it'll be you."

The jet just shakes his helm, smiling behind his mask as he says, "Sorry mech, I don't. Can I ask why?"

The therapist thinks back to a mech with a shattered mind being held together by gleaming links of coding and chain. A mech who seems so fragile, despite being anything but.

One blink. Two.

"No reason, Brainstorm. Just curious, is all."

* * *

 

It takes him a couple of jours, but eventually Whirl returns to the cell, a blank datapad in claw. It's not exactly what he had in mind, but it'll serve his purposes well enough.

"Hey Rung, I'm back," the pink mech says, showing off his find. "And I brought you- well, us- something to do. You've been under control of the Autobots for a while, right? And I don't think they went out of their way to teach this stuff so... No offense, but how would you like to learn how to read?"

The orange mech doesn't say anything but his chains clink softly as he moves forward towards the bars of the cell.

Good enough, Whirl supposes.

Kneeling by the person's door, the therapist displays the blank datapad and with one claw draws a shaky glyph on it.

"Okay Rung, look at this. See here? This glyph represents the sound 'ah'. Can you repeat it after me? 'Ahhh.'"  There isn't a response. Okaaay then. With the push of a button the pad erases the glyph, and in its place Whirl draws a new one.

"This glyph represents the sound 'buh'. Got that? It's okay if you didn't, we can go over these as many times as you need to."

Two glyphs turn into three and then four, until eventually Whirl finds that he's gone through the whole alphabet. And still, no response.

It wasn't like Rung had looked away or anything, in fact he'd seemed remarkably focused. It's just- how do you know if someone's learning or not if they can't repeat the info back to you and there isn't a way to test them? Whirl bites back a tired sigh. 

He knew that he wouldn't get much of anything out of doing this, at least for the first time around. This would take a while of course, but with no accurate way to measure Rung's progress, how much time is unclear. 

The work was worth doing though. Glyphs- sounds even- are the first step towards writing, reading, speaking. And once those are mastered, they become the gateway to the introduction of new ideas. The very base upon which communication is built.

He will try again. Over and over, until Rung finally understands the purpose of the wobbly lines on the pad. Until he could finally know what Whirl is to do.

Over and over, until Rung understands when Whirl finally introduces himself for real. 

 

* * *

_The boredom is the worst. Rung's plating is warm and tight, clenched with repressed nervousness, although he's in no state to recognize it as such._

_He is outfitted with a standard chronometer like most mechs, but the numbers are just one more red blur to him, devoid of all meaning. The figures shift as the orange mech scans and re-scans the hall, waiting for... Something. And still nothing happens. The dripping of coolant is the only reliable marker that time hasn't suddenly frozen._

_Rung's mind drifts._

Waitwaitwaitwait. Wait.... Wait........ Wait.

Wait.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_He's been in situations like this before, but never... Never had he.... He doesn't know.  (Never before had he had something to look forward to.)_

_It feels like the world has gone numb. Like the horrible dawning realization that forever is a concept that exists._

_And there is the clang of steps ringing down the metal hallway_.  _Systems whir to life as Rung lifts his head, optics fluttering open with a soft click. More clanging and the sound of a muffled voice, both slowly growing louder as whoever it is approaches._

Tense, tight. Shudder jolt whir, tight tight tight. Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: One.**

**Proximity: 150 feet.**

**Signature: Priority.**

**Not-Threat Neutral.**

Pink. Safe.

_There is an urgency to the footsteps now, a sense of purpose that the orange mech picks up on almost immediately. In his experience, there is always a reason for a mech to walk like that, and rarely a good one._

**Hostiles In Area.**

 Threat Protocals Act... Oh. No no nonono.

Threat Protocal...

Threat Pro...

NO!

 _His protocols should be activating, transforming him, making things (himself,_ _Not-Threat-Neutral) safe. There are hostiles, **why** are his protocals not activating?_

Hot tight, tightening plating, shudder. Pain, no red, not enough red red red. Where. Where? Pink! Where pink. Need red, need pink, need need need!

_Rung is a cell. He is surrounded by walls, in chains, behind bars. No one can get to him here, not truly- he is safe._

_But he doesn't feel that way (his Priority is still out there). And that makes all the difference._

  _The orange mech waits, plating clenched tight and a faint shiver running through him, and only relaxes when the pink mech reaches his cell, alone and unharmed._

Hot, warm, cool. Safe. No harm.

Cursory check...

**Vital Signs: One.**

**Proximity: 12 feet.**

**Signature: Priority.**

**Not-Threat Neutral.**

**Vitals: Stable, No Injuries Registered.**

Pink safe, no red, safe. Light, no weight, shiver tremble plating loose. Warm. Safe.

_Rung sags in his chains, utterly spent, but all he can feel is something adjacent to relief._

Not-Threat-Neutral. Movement, pink wave, up down up down. Flat thing. Closer closer, down, pink move down.

Tingle, flash hot, twitch. Twitch. Move?

_Curiousity, for lack of a better word, eats at him and the orange mech can't help but move closer. He recognizes that flat thing, has seen it before in the servers of his **Masters -- > Hostiles. **What is going on?_

Movement. Not-Threat-Neutral move flat thing up. Noise. Oh.

Order received.

_Rung scans it obediently._

**Vitals Signs: None.**

**Found: [Object Redacted].**

**Error, Information Unnecessary to Current Function.**

Red. Flash red. Movement, flat thing down, flat thing up. More noise. Prickle. Order received.

Cursory Check...

**Vitals Signs: None.**

**Found: [Object Redacted].**

**Error, Information Unnecessary to Current Function.**

Red red. Red. Flat thing down, flat thing up. Noise. Prickle, twist hot. Twitch twitch. 

Cursory check...

_The pad is raised and lowered over and over, each time with a new unreadable squiggle that Rung duly scans. Each scan is met with only more red warnings and a growing prickle twist of frustration._

_What is he missing?_

**Error, Information Unnecessary to Current Function.**

Red. Flash red. Movement, flat thing down, flat thing up. More noise. Prickle. Order received.

Noise. More... Noise. Oh! Noise! Down up noise, flat thing piece! Down up noise, down up noise total.

_With a pleasant warm flash of pleasure, Rung captures an image file of the new squiggle, along with the accompanying audio clip._

_He still can't understand the fragging thing, but he feels accomplished nonetheless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it's been, school sucks and we've been going crazy ptepping for AP testing. I feel bad for leaving you all hanging on such a paltry excuse, but it is what it is. Either way, I hope you liked it and come check me out on my Tumblr!
> 
> I'm archetypal-archivist so come chat if you like!


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